


Everything Illuminated

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Meet-Cute, Romance, Romance Novel Inspired, not-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 02:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: "Athos writing really meta plays when he's drunk and getting rich off them. D'artagnen is a big fan and athos is 'i literally habe no idea wtf that is about'. Richelieu thinks they're Great Art."





	Everything Illuminated

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by [justastormie ](http://justastormie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

Everyone's heard about the mysterious writer. _Everyone_. Memes have sprouted from bits of dialogue. They’ve been referenced on the Daily Show and Ellen. Many people try to claim it’s theirs. 

D'Artagnan's boss Richelieu practically drools over these avante garde, absurdist plays that are being released onto the internet by an anonymous writer. 

Richelieu, using his crafty and expensive means, finds out where the pieces are being uploaded onto the internet. He sends his assistant to infiltrate the sanctum of this secret writer's cave and convince them to work for Richelieu. D'Artagnan is young enough, and desperate enough for money (the book industry not paying very much) to do it. 

It turns out that the writer is a loner divorcé who’s drunk-writing pity pieces his therapist told him to write out as part of his healing process. He thinks he’s uploading them to a diary kind of site like Wordpress (and he doesn’t know that privacy is a thing you have to opt  _for_ , not opt out of, on the internet), when in reality he’s uploading them onto a mass shared server.

The reason the plays are never uploaded to the same place twice isn’t because of mystery or Art; it’s because Athos has no idea how to operate a computer and he keeps forgetting his username and having to make a new one. 

D'Artagnan very cleverly "infiltrates" Athos’ apartment by pretending he’s the pizza delivery guy. This lasts for about 0.2 seconds and then he sees the reality of his favorite author and he drops all pretense. He’s straight-up like “Richelieu sent me but PLEASE LET ME PICK YOUR BRAIN” and Athos is like what is there to pick, what are you talking about, who’s Richelieu. 

D'Artagnan sees the piles of unopened mail and reasons, "Ah, I guess you haven’t seen the letters begging you to work for him," and Athos says "Why would I work for anyone, who’s asking me, leave me alone?" 

There follows a wonderful montage of d'Artagnan unveiling the world to Athos – literally, drawing back the curtains and ignoring Athos’ muffled screams as the sunlight hits his eyes for the first time in weeks – but also figuratively, showing aAhos how to actually use a computer by going to Athos’ fansites and message boards and the clip of the Daily Show joking about the mystery author... 

Athos is sitting there with his jaw dropping lower and lower in horror. The whole point of this stupid exercise was to leave these feelings behind and now everyone in the world can see into his psyche, and fucking hell that’s a pretty heavy thing for anyone who’s not even as closely guarded as Athos. 

But d'Artagnan convinces him to keep writing. He shows Athos how other people have been inspired by Athos’ work; how they draw parallels to their own sadness and grief and loss, and also their own hope and rebuilding after suffering. He tells Athos about the loss of his own father, and how Athos’ words seemed to speak to something within him. Athos argues that it’s not his fault if people assign meaning to meaningless words, and d'Artagnan argues that that’s the point of literature at all; and they have a rousing debate that lasts until two actual real pizza delivery people have been and gone. 

And the thing is, d'Artagnan never looks disappointed with Athos. He never seems upset or angry that his favorite author, the one he said almost  _saved his life_ , is a mess of feelings and alcohol. He pushes Athos to argue, to provide better arguments and to prove himself to d'Artagnan. But he never throws out a resentful “I thought you’d be better than this.” He never leaves. And he thinks – he _seems_ to think there’s something good in Athos. Something worth sticking around for, something worth nurturing. 

D'Artagnan keeps pushing and pushing until Athos grudgingly agrees to give it another go.

Only he sits there and sits there, with d'Artagnan staring hopefully at him from the corner, and nothing comes. It’s bollocks.

So he gives up and grabs a bottle and gets drunk, with d'Artagnan sharing a brew but also frowning a little, with a tiny thundercloud of worry over his head. 

Athos wakes up the next morning and finds that a new play has been uploaded. All the message boards are talking about it. Even Buzzfeed has an article talking about the new turn that the plays have taken. 

Athos is just starting to wonder if d'Artagnan wrote a new piece to put Athos out of his misery, when he catches sight of a phrase that he  _knows_  had been floating around his head for a good few hours last night, when they’d been up so late that the sun was starting to sear the sky with red and gold, and a thin shaft of light had snuck through the blinds and had illuminated d'Artagnan’s face. Athos had thought of catching the sun and holding it above d'Artagnan’s head, so d'Artagnan would forever be shining in that golden light; and he had thought of touching his hand to that streak of light on d'Artagnan’s face, just so gently; and he had watched d'Artagnan’s lips around the neck of his beer bottle and thought of those lips pressing against Athos’ neck, his chest. 

The end result was some kind of acid-trip, Lewis Carroll story wherein an astronaut kills the last unicorn on the moon, where he brought it especially to be slaughtered as a sacrifice to the president of the Congo. Athos mourns his obviously irreparable psyche. 

Then, of course, d'Artagnan emerges from the bathroom, having splashed his face with water but still looking sleepy and a bit hungover. He missed his face a few times with the water-splashing, so half his torso is wet too. And that’s when Athos knows he’s fucked. 

D'Artagnan says, “I read your story, it was really interesting,” and starts going into the symbolism of the piece and what does this mean? -- or this? -- weren’t you talking about unicorns as an imperfect and outdated literary reference last night–? 

Athos interrupts him by saying, “i’ll work for you.”

D'Artagnan has to blink a few times and get his brain back on track, but then he's able to say,"Oh okay i’ll tell richelieu,"

and Athos says "No. I’ll work for  _you_. Only you."

He’s aware in the swelling silence that follows that what he said sounded a bit like a declaration of – well, of something that may or may not be – well –  _love_. Or. Like. 

D'Artagnan can't stop gaping. He doesn't own a company, he doesn't even own his own house. What is Athos talking about?

Athos says he says he’ll come forward (privately) as the author, provide evidence, as long as d'Artagnan has the monetary rights to whatever Athos produces. As his manager or agent or whatever, he’ll figure it out. Because, he explains to d'Artagnan, he doesn’t think that “muse” is an official business title. 

D'Artagnan shuts his mouth and goes pink. Athos is reminded of the night before and the red-gold dawn light playing over d'Artagnan’s face. He wants to put his hand there, to feel d'Artagnan’s warmth against him (and he thinks d'Artagnan would be very warm, and Athos suddenly feels the cold of the isolation he’s subjected himself to for too long). 

Athos thinks of d'Artagnan across the room from his last night and the stormcloud above his head; and he looks at d'Artagnan in the middle of the room now, arms folding awkwardly around his torso as the moment stretches; and he imagines d'Artagnan a room away for the rest of his life, always too far away; and he thinks of d'Artagnan pushing him to write again and the dawning light on his face. 

For once – for once in his miserable, anxious, double-guessing life – Athos steps forward first instead of waiting, and he skates his fingers up d'Artagnan’s neck, feeling the nervous pulse jump; and he slides his fingers up d'Artagnan’s jaw, and reaches his cheek, and lays his hand against the sun-roughened skin there, feeling d'Artagnan’s warmth.

He looks into d'Artagnan’s eyes and sees d'Artagnan’s surprised, parted lips and he kisses him, eyes open, heart jumping when d'Artagnan doesn’t pull away. 

In fact, d'Artagnan leans in, and then his arms are full of Athos, and Athos’ arms are full of d'Artagnan, and they’re staggering toward the mattress Athos uses as a bed (“Don’t knock over the computer,” d'Artagnan gasps, and Athos surprises himself with a laugh) and d'Artagnan is toppling them both over in a way that lets him twist around to straddle Athos.

Athos leans back on his elbows and watches the full, bright sunlight of the morning illuminate d'Artagnan’s face, and his hands, and the room and the computer and the windows and the street beyond – everything illuminated, d'Artagnan shining in the middle of it all atop Athos and leaning down to kiss him again. 


End file.
